Could have been terrible

The weather’s been really nice lately. And in our efforts to bring our electric bill way down while we have the chance, we’ve been keeping the A/C off and opening the windows. Especially the back door — we have only the screen door up almost all day and night.

And then, last night. I was in the kitchen while C was sitting in the living room. It was about 2 in the morning? I hear this massive crash. Our cat has seen another cat on the porch, attacked, and pushed the screen door right out. Not the screen, the entire door.

I run into the living room as C pulls the sliding door closed. Looking around, I ask where the cat is. We have a small disagreement about whether or not the cat would go outside. C says she never tries to go outside and I argue that maybe through sheer momentum, she couldn’t help it. We look inside for the cat, including all her favorite hiding places. Nothing.

At this point, I’m maybe freaking out just a little. I like this cat, I’m quite fond of her, and I don’t really fancy losing her. C goes outside with a flashlight, in the rain, and starts patrolling the green space behind our apartment. I stay on the back porch in case the cat comes back. After 30 minutes of this, I’m freaking out a little more because really? This is the day I lose my cat?

I run back inside to grab some catfood to shake around, and as I approach the back door I see a streak of white and C waving frantically. The cat has just rushed by our porch and is slinking through bushes. C finally grabs her and hands her over the rail to me.

My cat was wet, muddy, and kind of freaking out herself. But she’s home.

Ghost Stories

A Pajiba friend has been posting some of his ghost experiences, and they inspired me to tell my own. It’s the Halloween season, I guess.

It’s not as exciting or vivid as his, but it sure scared the hell out of me when it happened.

The first one happened in my bedroom of the house I grew up in (on Westminster). My bed faced the window, which faced nothing, really. Just the fence and a narrow strip of side yard. And one night, as I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep, I saw something.

It didn’t look like much at first. Just a shadow. But the shadow looked . . . wrong somehow. If you lie in a bed and stare at a window for that many years, you get pretty familiar with where the light hits in any given situation. This shadow just didnt make sense. It seemed detached, set apart from the fence, and it didn’t fall like any shadow I had ever seen.

Just as I was puzzling over this, the shadow moved. And the best I can explain it is that the shadow seemed to ripple slightly and move through my window. I was terrified, unable to move or cry out or do anything except stare at it in rapt horror.

I remember lying there, crying and unblinking as I felt a kind of malevolence  rush over me.  The room was thrumming with it. And all I could think to do, frozen as I was, was to silently pray.  My relationship with the church by then was tenuous at best, but some habits and faith will stick with you no matter what. I fervently sent up every plea I could think of, shivering the entire time as the room grew colder and the shadow hovered first in the window, then past it, and then moved closer to me. And as I lay there, I watched the shadow suddenly dissolve. I bolted upright and ran to the bathroom where I huddled in a towel and tried to convince myself that I had been dreaming.

But I knew I hadn’t been asleep. Not at all. And I didn’t sleep in my room for a week.

Get ready for some reading

Starting in November, I’ll be participating in Pajiba’s Cannonball Read, which has been changed this year from 100 books read in a year to 52.  Which means that when I read a book, I’m going to write and post a review of it on this here blog.

You might wonder what I’ll be reading.  Well, I always felt like a terrible English major for not reading certain classic books. This might help me take care of that.  I might go shopping at M’s house (really, she has a LOT of books) and see what interests me.  There have been some Shakespeare plays I always meant to get to, the ones that weren’t addressed in my classes. Who knows! But I’m really tired of reading research articles for my thesis. And I need something to do when I take a break other than watching old episodes of The Office or playing stupid games.

And if anyone has suggestions of books they love, please send them my way. You know how when you go to a bookstore or a library, every idea you ever had about books you wanted just flies away? That happens to me all the time. I don’t even know where to start, except by looking through my own bookcases and grabbing the stuff I’ve been ignoring for years. So help a girl out.

Heading on out

I’ve decided to move all of my recipes and cooking posts from this site over to the other blog, Fixin’ to Eat.  It might take  a couple of days, but it will all go, including the printer-friendly versions.  So be patient!  And make sure to bookmark the other site.

We can rebuild it, we have the technology

So . . . this is probably the most unexpected, awesome thing.  Dr. Frankenstein has arrived to fix my household appliances.

My friends Heather and Casey came to town to visit (yay!).  Upon arriving, I informed Casey how upset I was that my very expensive, overly loved primo bar blender I got for Christmas 2 years ago has been dead, died, kaput.  For a while now.  Casey, being the guy that he is, asks if he can tinker with it.  Sure, I say.  Go nuts.

He informs me, after a brief inspection, that my blender has blown some fuse inside.  He holds it up victoriously and I say disbelievingly, “That was the problem??”

So after dinner, Casey takes a trip out to Walmart to see if they have a fuse.  He also picks up new vacuum cleaner belts that he happens to find there because I had been bitching how I couldn’t find any yesterday at Target.  He officially rocks.

Upon his return  the following happens.
Casey: Okay.  They didn’t have the fuse but . . . they had a $5 surge protector.  And some soldering material.  And a lighter that might do the job.  So, uh, I can try this and if I totally blow it up I swear I’ll buy you a new one. But it’s not currently working anyway, right?
Me: What are you asking me exactly?
C: Well, if this works, and it’s gonna work, you can use your blender.  It might glow a really neat light when you use it. Are you okay with that?
Me: What??

After 10 minutes, of asking if it’s going to blow me up or catch my kitchen on fire if I try to use it once they leave, accusing him of being a fly-by-night weirdo who makes explosive devices in the kitchens of friends, I agree to let him do it.  Heather assures me that after 2 years of living with him, she’s not been killed.

And he does the following (I had to quote him because I couldn’t possibly summarize this):  “I sharded a surge protector, cut out the fuse, soldered it in where the blender fuse used to be, heat-shrinked it, and turned it on.  And if the fuse blows out again, just open it up and flip the switch.”

Lo and behold, I have a blender again.  I admit to being a little terrified of using it, but I’m gonna have the fire extinguisher handy.  And it doesn’t glow, but I’m kind of okay with that.  That might have made me even more nervous.

If he didn’t have such a good job already, I would tell him he has a prolific, if scary and weird, new career.

You must go here

My new obsession? Egg Radio. It’s a great online radio station with a weird, eclectic mix.  There’s a rating system, and members can upload songs to the library. I’ve been uploading like a champ.  Spender, the man with the plan, even sent me a message telling me he was about to play “Total Eclipse” by Billy Cobham.  This made my day since I personally strive to make every man, woman, and child a fan of Mr. Cobham.  He will show you the way, kids. I swear it.  You know how kids are supposed to listen to Beethoven and get better at math?  Listening to Cobham (or many other funk bands) instantly makes you cooler and more socially viable.

And there’s my shout out for the day.

What else is going on?  Umm, a couple of friends are headed into town this weekend to attend the Cake Wrecks book signing downtown.  I’m supposed to be cleaning the apartment.  If you know me, you know exactly how much I’ve accomplished thus far (the answer is 5%).  You know, if I could just get C to do the floors, I’ll do the rest.  Because I hate vacuuming and mopping more than anything.  I’d even rather clean the tub, and that’s saying something considering that by the time I’m done my knees are kind of bruised and disgusting looking.

This is turning into a really boring post, isn’t it?  I wish I had some funny story or weird insight to share.  Give me a week, I’ll try to come up with something better.

Oh God, it’s true

I’m codependent.  I admit it.  When C is out of town, I start moping.  I’m fine during the day because I can pretend she’s at work.  But as soon as I have to go to bed and realize she’s not coming home, I deflate a little.  It’s kind of  sad.

Anyway, she went out of town because a family member quite suddenly died.  And upon her return we were talking about how badly we feel for his wife and children, especially now that the rest of the extended family is trickling back to their own homes.  They’re having to deal with this sudden emptiness, the silence, the loss that must seem gaping.

And I told her how I used to have nightmares about her dying.  Granted, they were more frequent when our lives were super stressful, and I was constantly worried about her.  But the nightmares have changed over time and now instead I have nightmares about her being gone.  Just . . . gone.  And dealing with that void.

C: But you’ve always had those.  And I have them.  It’s a normal fear, I think.
Me: It might be a normal fear, but I think it’s a little weird to have nightmares about that kind of thing when nothing is wrong.
C: Well then, we’re both screwed up.
Me: Oh my god, I’m codependent.  That’s what I am!  Crap, can I borrow your napkin? I don’t have one.
C: (smirking) Do you want a sip of my drink, or do you want your own?
Me: I’ll just take a sip of yours.  Oh.  Hey!! That’s not funny.

My girl, bringing it all into perspective.

It’s just so stupid

Last night I’m playing with my cat and her new favorite string.  Suddenly, and I don’t think this is my fault, she runs over my foot.  This results in long gashes going across the tops of four toes.  This quite naturally hurts, so I start screaming and carrying on like a giant girl.

C, hearing the commotion, saunters on over.  I pick up my foot and wave it at her.  She says, “Oh, geez, she just scratched you.”

Of course, that’s when blood starts gooshing out of my foot. Hahaha, that’s what happens when you make light of my injuries!  She sprints to the bathroom and returns with a considerable wad of toilet paper which she then strategically smooshes around on my foot.  Thusly staunched (sort of), I announce that I’m going upstairs to stick my foot in the tub, pour some peroxide on my foot, and clean the cuts out.  She tells me that she has just finished putting Drano in the tub, but I can certainly hop up on the teeny wittle counter in the downstairs bathroom and put my foot in the sink.  For those of you without a visual, the counter pretty much is the sink, so what she’s actually suggesting is that I either: 1) do a weird combination ballet move/flamingo stance and clean my foot or 2) somehow stick my foot into the sink that my ass would be sitting in.  Neither of these options is sounding really attractive, and the blood that had been held at bay by a wad of Angel Soft is now threatening to end up on the carpet.  So I demand that she go into the kitchen and fetch the big pot.  Which, of course, turns into “What pot?” “The BIG pot!”  “The one you make pasta in?” “No, the OTHER big pot!”  “The new one?”  “NO, the one that would fit a foot!!”

Correct pot having been located, she fills it with water and somehow hits my foot because while I’m expecting her to, you know, put it on the floor, she’s holding it mid-air and raising it to meet my foot.  I swear, she defies all logic in my world.  The cool water feels lovely, and it’s really neat how little pink bubbles seem to be coming out of my toes.

She goes upstairs for supplies and comes back with the following: a roll of gauze, some Neosporin, handsoap, a giant pack of bandaids, and an Ace bandage. For real.  She’s nothing if not prepared.  She then attempts to wash my foot which means she’s attempting to not only touch my foot but she’s about to touch the things that hurt and that is not allowed.  Ask my mother how many times I locked myself in the bathroom with an injury as a child.  No one touches my scrapes, my splinters, and certainly not the bloody cuts that hurt.  So I snatch my foot away and, okay, yes, splash her in the face a little.  It isn’t on purpose so I don’t see why she gets all huffy.

Once I feel sufficiently de-germed, she pats me dry with a towel (after I object, of course, to the first towel because I claim it’s too “linty”).  And then I am gracious enough to let her put bandaids all over my foot.  I decline the gauze, tape, and Ace bandage, though it’s a sweet gesture.

And then, for the rest of the evening the cat stays near me and even sleeps next to my foot on the ottoman.  It’s a weird sort of protectiveness, even though she’s the one that did it.  C claims that the cat feels bad, but I know better.  I caught her sniffing the bandaids and trying to claw the back of my foot when she thought I wasn’t looking and I’m keeping an eye on her.

It’s always something

Well, Austin finally made good on the rain. And I was enjoying it until . . .

So I’m cooking, watching Dead Like Me, looking forward to the party. It’s storming. And eventually the rain noises sound a little louder, a little closer, a little inside.  So I start hunting, searching for the source of that dripping noise.

I find it on the stairs. The ceiling in my stairwell is leaking, which means there’s a leak in the attic-ish area and dammit. I grab a Tupperware and stick it on the stairs to catch the water. I call the apartment office.

Man: Thank you for calling —–. How can I help you?
Me: Hi, are there any maintenance people around today? My ceiling is leaking.
Man: Yeah, it’s raining really hard.
Me: . . . That’s right. It is. And that’s why there is a leak in my ceiling?
Man: We’ve gotten a lot of calls today about this, actually.
Me: Okay.
Man: Oh, we can’t actually do anything about it, not until it dries out.
Me: Uh . . . huh.  So do you have a list of all these people that have called? Can you put my apartment number on it?
Man: Oh, no.  Why don’t you just call back on Monday? We’ll take care of it then. Thanks for calling!

And then he hung up on me. I hate this apartment.

A decade in review

Today (yes! today!) is my 10 year anniversary with C.  I’ve said it before, but it really is mind boggling sometimes.  Going along, day to day, it never seems like that long.  But every once in a while I sit back and marvel at it.  And that’s when a decade with a person has heft, has some weight behind it.

We’re not doing anything special, which is fine.  I’ll be cooking one hell of a dinner on Friday (she’s taking 2 days off work so we can relax and celebrate).  But I’m so damn giddy, I keep expecting to walk outside and see fireworks in the sky.  Everyone should take an hour off of work and go drinking because OH MY GOD WE MADE IT THIS FAR.

If you know us, hell, you might be one of the few who knew us before we started dating, you might be just as amazed as we are.  It has not been easy, and we’re the first ones to admit that.  We have no earthly clue how we’ve pulled it off and managed to stay together.  For those not in the know, and for my own self-indulgent, self-congratulatory purposes, I’m providing a timeline.